


"It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see."

by Likorys



Series: Tumblr snippets [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, a random crazy mage gets killed, and convinces geralt he doesn't not feel scared or disgusted by it, by kissing of course because it's the best method, jaskier sees geralt with his black eyes for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: The first time Jaskier sees the witcher with black eyes is just a little traumatic for both of them, although for different reasons. What's a bard to do, other than kiss it all better?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Tumblr snippets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651510
Comments: 5
Kudos: 731





	"It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote by Henry David Thoreau.

There were many rumors about Witchers - that they have no hearts, that they bleed black sludge, that their touch spreads their impotency, that they eat monster they hunt and that’s why they only bring back heads, that their eyes are as black as night when they hunt and their fangs come out then as well. Jaskier thought himself above petty rumors… but he also thought himself well educated and it took one meeting with Filavander to show how bloody clueless he was.

So, tagging along Geralt, he vowed to keep his mind as open as possible and to question _nothing_ \- because who is he to judge how bloody Geralt likes his meat and what it says about the witcher?; and _everything_ \- because he’ll rather never speak again than find himself again spewing as many lies as in that little cave at the edge of the world (it’s _not_ _the lies_ , pers se, he is a _bard_ after all, but he likes to _know_ when he’s lying, he likes to have a _choice_ ).

Traveling with Geralt slowly destroys many rumors Jaskier heard. His heart is very much real, even if it beats so slow Jaskier has a panic attack one night when he couldn’t feel it and then had to deal with half-exasperated, half-annoyed witcher who lost sleep. He doesn’t spread anything (unless you count legs of many a-whore in the brothels he visits). He burns the monsters after they’re killed and beheaded, sometimes gathering odd feathers, fangs, scales, hair or venom. He eats and drinks and sleeps and fucks like any other human, and when he comes from his battles bloody and wounded he hisses and grunts and screams from pain like any other man.

At some point, Jaskier decided to believe the exact opposite of every single rumor he hears about witchers because clearly that seems to be the pattern here.

It takes four months and over a dozen contracts before he’s proven wrong.

They are in Anserhill – a not quite village but not a town either, far enough north of anything to govern itself as long as the taxes are paid, so it’s only when the grains don’t come for a month that anyone is sent to investigate. After the fourth guard comes back half-dead, delirious with magic and rambling about _Red Moon_ and _cruses_ and _mages_ , a contract is drawn to fix whatever is happening.

Jaskier is unnerved as soon as they reach the place, cold and bleached of color, with ever-present fog never lifting for even a moment. The fields are plentiful and grey, the animals fat and catatonic, and people smile brightly with their ashen faces and blue lips. He still busies himself with singing in a small inn while Geralt talks with the mayor, because traveling the wild lowered his standards when it comes to what lodgings he find acceptably _quite spectacularly_. It also never hurt to try and get some information.

Geralt comes back tense and locks himself in their room without a word, and when Jaskier comes later with a dinner he’s got the table full of potions, herbs, a mortar and a dozen little glass bottles. Jaskier knows what they are, vaguely, saw Geralt drain a potion or two when he was wounded the worst in their short time together. He never got an answer about what they are - _For bloodloss_ or _For pain_ were all Geralt gave him if he gave any answer at all.

So Jaskier gives in to his curiosity, puts the plate on the bed and then unceremoniously leans over Geralt’s shoulder to look at what he’s doing. He gets an elbow to his ribs and jumps away, but he doesn’t have time to protest.

“Fumes” Geralt’s voice is low and cold, and Jaskier tries to suppress a shudder when he notices an open window. Geralt grumbles about him tagging along and still tries to tell him to stay at the camp, which he never does _because he needs to see the fights to write songs about them Geralt_ , but until now, nothing ever happened to him.

Not since the broken rib and bruised lung from that cave.

So to have Geralt now keep Jaskier away is - troubling, just a little.

“Good thing I brought your dinner _after_ eating mine still warm and safely downstairs, like a _civilized human_ , then” his joke falls flat with the way he hovers close to Geralt, but just outside of his reach.

The potion he makes now is white, milky and cloudy, like eyes blinded with age or sugar melting into caramel.

He gets no response, but also no further deterrents, so he hovers and watches Geralt work and tries not to feel guilty when his memory seems to burn every little move into itself. He’d never betray Geralt – he’d rather cut out his tongue than let is spill witcher’s secret and it’s something he tries not to think about, because he’s just a bard trailing along a Witcher like a lost duckling because the wide-open world turned out to be cruel and not at all like the panes of freedom he envisioned for himself as he run away from Kerack and titles and manners and arranged marriage.

He stumbles when Geralt pushed his chair back, glass bottles with a dozen potions twinkling in his hands as he puts them into the little bag by his hip.

“I’ll be back by sunrise.” Witcher looks at Jaskier and there is something far away and fragile in the golden eyes and bard wants to weep because this is Geralt, he should never look _vulnerable_ like a stray cat waiting for a kick. “If you see a red moon, lock the room. If Roach comes back alone, get on her and run.” There is a pause and Jaskier clutches as his own sleeves, trying to ignore how loud his breathing is in the sudden silence. “ _Do not_ come looking for me before sunrise, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nods, because something stole his voice and he’s not sure what would come out if he opened his mouth. Geralt gives him a suspicious once-over that has the bard sputtering indignantly, but it’s weak and they both sense it.

“Good luck” jumps from Jaskier’s throat when Geralt is standing at the door, and it’s the first time he ever said it to him and it tastes bitter as it slips over his tongue.

He knows by now that witchers don’t need _luck_ , they have skills and potions and mutations and two scary looking swords and a ton of muscles, so they very much _do not need_ to rely on luck and wishing it is probably insulting, but-

It’s the first time Jaskier considers that what witcher fights might pose an actual _threat_ , that he might actually _die_ , it’s the first time since that cave and _Jaskier is an idiot_ who let himself fall into a false sense of security just because Geralt seems _so perfect_ to his eyes, just as easily as he let himself fall in-

Geralt ignores him, walks out and locks the door before sliding the key under them, the room heavy with loaded silence before it’s cut by an impatient “Jaskier!”

Jaskier scrambles for the key, turning it in the lock and then ties the string to the doorknob. It will work to warm him at best, but the first floor is no that high and stables are right by their window.

He slinks onto the bed as he listens to heavy footsteps fading away, trying not to panic. Geralt will be fine, probably back before sunrise and everything will be back to normal of the last few months.

At least that’s what he keeps telling himself when he idly strums his lute, no words coming to him no matter how much he tries to compose.

Then the fog seeps into the room like liquid and grabs as Jaskier fingers with wispy pushes and the crescent moon on the dark sky bleeds red. Jaskier’s out trough the window before he’s aware of it enough to roll with the fall and his legs burn with pain for it.

He wastes a whole moment to catch his breath, looking at the fog that’s spreading to the houses, climbing walls and sneaking between windows and doors, and then very smartly runs toward the seeming source of it between the trees.

He can already hear an echo of Geralt’s voice scolding him.

The thought of the echo being all he’ll ever have again make him run _faster_.

Of course, the forest is thick as anything and fog doesn’t help. It only takes Jaskier a few humiliating minutes before he’s completely lost, kicking a tree that he passed for the seventh time.

Then he hears clangs of metal and hears a scream and runs blindly towards them, once and then another time and again and again, chasing echoes in a fog like a blind. He finds squashed bushes, a spray of blood on a stone, shards of glass in a small puddle shimmering with colors, a tree split in two, then-

Scream is ear-piercing, high and layered and multi-voiced and _inhuman_ and Jaskier trips over his own feet. His head hits a stone so he stays down, curling into himself and watching through bleary eyes as the fog seems to tremble before starting to vanish in the air.

“I told you” the voice is muffled by the echo of the ringing, still stubbornly clinging to Jaskier’s ears, and the voice is raspy and unnervingly wet, but Jaskier still melts as he scrambles to his feet with a relieved smile, stopped only by a sharp: “to _stay back!_ ”

Jaskier stumbles, almost falling again and cringing at the thought of any walk tomorrow. This is more an order than a reminder and he already dismissed one today.

“You’re fine-” Words get stuck in his throat when the rest of the fog is gone and he can see the witcher.

He’s standing a few meters away, bloody sword still in his hand and dripping. Ther is a body by a tree nearby, head rolled into the high grass, pale skin panted with symbols and clothes covered with stitched inscriptions. There’s not a scratch on the witcher and Jaskier would’ve been relieved, but then he saw-

“C-can you-?” he slowly gets closer, grass and twigs loud under his feet and each of his breaths a little cloud before his face.

He’d give anything for the fog again when he’s within arm’s reach of Geralt.

Geralt, with his eyes blackened as if empty, with dark lines reaching out from them like spiderwebs, his arms tense and his fingers white where he clutches his sword.

Jaskier reaches a hand before he thinks about it, because there is a strand of hair stuck to witcher’s cheek and it must be irritating because it goes straight across his left-

And of all the things this is what he cannot leave alone, so he _reaches_ with trembling fingers, but Geralt pulls his head back and Jaskier melts with a whispered:

“Thank gods…” He sways a little before catching his balance, “You can still see.”

But Geralt is standing still as stone and seems to barely breathe and the relief dies at the thought of it being something else, at the memory of witcher’s stupidly keen senses.

“You _c-can_ see me, right?” his voice breaks a little and he swallows a sob. “Please, Geralt, s-say she didn’t-?” His eyes flit to the body nearby for just a moment, but it’s enough to nearly miss the little shake of the white hair so he snaps all his attention back to Geralt.

He can _see_ , he’s not standing still in the open because the crazy painted lady gouged out his eyes. It’s good, he should be relieved, but Geralt still won’t move, sword in his hand and he’s tense as anything and Jaskier has no idea why, but it’s unnerving and he needs to fix it.

“Was she alone?” he asks gently, feeling something twist in his stomach. It’s a _human_ , or something looking like one. It was only unnatural monsters, more animal and nightmare than anything else, at least until now. He wonders about the rumors of heartless witchers and his own heart feels for Geralt, who is _no_ _Butcher_ no matter the twisted stories.

Another move, a little jerky nod that sends more of Geralt’s hair to his face. They must’ve gotten loose in the fight. Jaskier swallows and reaches out, again, with both trembling hands. Geralt moves back again, but only once so Jaskier waits a little before slowly hooking loose strands with his fingers, then moving them to the sides, behind witcher’s ears.

It’s the first skin to skin contact and it burns, Geralt is cold as if dead, but Jaskier knows better. His fingers linger, slowly trailing across his jaw and then his cheeks, brushing the black lines under his eyes with barely-there touches and staying right under the utter black that replaced white and gold.

Jaskier expected Geralt to move back, but when he doesn’t they both just stay like that. It’s close enough Jaskier can truly look at his eyes.

There’s actually a pale gray, barely-there ring, a memory of the iris and Jaskier smiles, a small, broken thing that hurts his lips because this means it’s all gonna be fine, doesn’t it?

“Why are they-?” he asks, barely above a whisper and it breaks whatever was happening, because Geralt jerks back and away, turning his head as he cleans the sword with the edge of his tunic.

“Potions.” Witcher’s voice is still hoarse and Jaskier remembers shards of glass in a rainbow of liquid on the ground. “To see in the dark. This is the side-effect”.

Jaskier nods absentmindedly and wonders if the potions hurt his throat too. Geralt is still tense, his moves jerky as if he still expects another attack and doesn’t let himself relax. Jaskier’s confused because he said the painted woman was alone, so who could still hurt him?

It takes him a few seconds, but then it clicks and-

_Oh, Geralt._

“They’re gorgeous.” Jaskier tries to force his voice into something steady. Geralt whips his head back, brows furrowed and hands clenched and teeth barred.

“Don’t-!”

“No lying” Jaskier slowly comes closer again, reaches to brush hair from Geralt’s face again.

He doesn’t recoil this time, but doesn’t relax either. So Jaskier makes an effort to look straight into the inky black and smile.

“They’re pretty,” he says, gentle, a finger trailing along dark veins again. “Like a starless night sky and prettier than any _potion side effect crap has any right to be!_ Honestly, Geralt, how is you manage to look even better, and just to fight **monsters**!” He stresses the last word. Painted lady, crazy or tricked or whatever else, she’s no more human than the drowners in a lake. Geralt wouldn’t have killed her if she was. ”It shouldn’t be possible, you already are perfect…” he trails off, breath hitching when he realizes what he said.

Well, in for copper, in for gold…

“They’re _beautiful_.” He repeats and smiles a little more at the way Geralt leans just a tiny bit into his hand when he rests it on his cheek, slender fingers on dark lines and pale skin. “ _You’re_ beautiful,” he adds in a whisper slowly leaning in, pushing up to rest their foreheads together. “If you’re waiting for me to be disgusted and run away, better get comfortable for the rest of your life. I’m never gonna do it.” he leans to touch their lips together and then backs again, brushed his nose with his own.

The potion must be starting to wear off. There are specks of gold shining through the starless black and Jaskier’s already composing a poem about it all.

Geralt doesn’t seem to react, not at first, so Jaskier simply waits, his free hand finding white hair and gently brushing through it.

Then the sword slips from Geralt’s fingers and lands on the ground with a thud.

Then his shoulders lower, slowly, the tension seeping out.

Then a large hand brushes at Jaskier’s hip and he steps into it, smiling.

Then fingers rest on his arm, idly brushing a dark stain on bright silk.

Then dry lips move against his own and Jaskier humms.

His eyes watching as stars slowly light up the black sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by loverly fanart by @daryshkart to be found here https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/190576657079/ive-been-listening-to-iris-by-the-goo-goo-dolls


End file.
